


burst me into bloom

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean in Panties, Established Relationship, M/M, Rimming, feelings are hard, overtones of sub!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:52:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2724530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has never understood that Castiel couldn’t stop paying attention to him if he tried. That he <i>has</i> tried, and never once succeeded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burst me into bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inplayruns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inplayruns/gifts).



> Three thousand words of shamelessly sappy porn, for the upcoming birthday of my very dear friend Bexy. Rimming, Dean in panties, feelings (which are difficult when you're as repressed as these two), handholding, some vague overtones of sub!Dean, etc. Set in some nebulous projected second half of season 10. The title is from "Entanglement" by Imogen Heap, which I _pretty_ much listened to on repeat while I wrote this. I'm over [here](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.

“Dude,” Dean insists, “I’m fine.”

The Winchesters, Dean in particular, think that Castiel is too distracted, too overwhelmed by the return of his humanity, to take notice of the subtleties of their problems. Dean has never understood that Castiel couldn’t stop paying attention to him if he tried. That he _has_ tried, and never once succeeded.

He’d seen Dean’s hands shaking as he hefted his gun, Dean stopping to rub distractedly at the crook of his elbow as he peered around a corner, the hard glaze that dropped over Dean’s expression as he drove his blade through the vampire’s neck. A routine hunt, Sam had said with forced cheer. This was supposed to set them right, to recalibrate Dean after the ordeal of trying to pry the Mark of Cain from his body and soul.

“I know what that means,” Castiel tells him. He threads his fingers together at the nape of Dean’s neck and pulls him into a kiss, slow, working Dean’s mouth open under his. Dean tastes like pizza, cheap beer, and coffee.

Castiel has been treading lightly, unfolding this unnamable thing between them the way he once opened shipments of potato chips for the convenience store. Gentle, careful not to crush the delicate contents and watchful of anything that might have been broken on the way to its destination.

Still, it’s taking him time to adjust. Dean kisses easily, all practiced warmth, like it’s something casual, but it feels anything but to Castiel. His nerves flutter, his blood heats, he hurtles to some breathtaking edge of longing at nothing but the slick slide of Dean’s tongue against his own.

The first time Dean kissed him, crowding him against the washing machine in the bunker and curling his hands into Castiel’s coat, Castiel had thought _this is it, this is a heart attack, this is how I die now that I’ve fallen for good._

“Geez,” Dean murmurs. He laughs, the sound vibrating against Castiel’s mouth and almost convincingly lighthearted.

“Dean,” Castiel says. He intends to take advantage of the unanticipated night to themselves. Sam had caught Castiel’s eye, raised an eyebrow, and booked two rooms without consulting Dean.

“Hey, guilty as charged.”

Castiel sighs.

“Don’t do this to me,” Dean says, and he curls two fingers through one of Castiel’s belt loops. “You know I don’t wanna talk about it. There’s not even an it.”

Castiel acquiesces for a moment, succumbing to the lure of Dean’s teeth grazing his lower lip and Dean’s thumb working its way under his T-shirt to stroke the line of his hipbone. Dean’s thighs make a warm, solid cradle when he sits at the edge of the queen-sized bed and tugs Castiel closer until they’re nearly flush against one another.

“Okay.” Castiel’s voice comes out scratchy and low. “Okay, we don’t have to talk.”

There are times, he’s learning, when Dean responds better to touch anyway—but when he reaches to work Dean’s jeans open, his knuckles grazing Dean’s belly and making the muscles there jump, Dean tenses.

“I can stop,” Castiel says quickly.

Dean’s jaw works. He swallows. “Don’t laugh,” he says.

Castiel doesn’t understand until his fingertips brush the material of Dean’s underwear. Rough and delicate at once— _lace_ , something buried in his vast bank of acquired knowledge supplies.

“I thought we were sharing with Sam tonight,” Dean says, too quick, the words tripping over each other. “Thought I’d just change in the bathroom, later, I—I don’t know. Stupid of me.” He’s gripping the mattress, his knuckles turning white, and Castiel’s a moment or two too late: it dawns on him that Dean is embarrassed, a sour underpinning to the near-violent restlessness Castiel can still sense.

“Dean.” He says it again, slower and more careful, and pops the button on Dean’s fly.

That, apparently, is enough, because Dean keeps talking, color climbing into the arches of his cheekbones. “I just, uh—I figured no one’d see, and they kinda help sometimes, y’know, not that I—”

Castiel kisses him again, curling his fingertips below the waistband of Dean’s panties. The fabric is pale pink, taut against the smooth skin just below Dean’s stomach.

Dean whimpers and kisses him back, hooks his foot around Castiel’s calf. He’s rough, biting at Castiel’s lower lip, sucking on his tongue and panting into the air between them when they part.

Castiel strokes Dean’s belly with his palm, rucking his T-shirt up out of the way. “Dean,” he says once more, thoughtful, rewarded with Dean’s silence and the increasing dilation of Dean’s pupils. “Will you do something for me?”

The motel is cheap, because the motels the Winchesters choose are always cheap. But there’s a full-length mirror hanging crookedly from the back of the bathroom door, and while Dean strips, avoiding Castiel’s gaze, Castiel props it open with one of Dean’s discarded steel-toed boots.

“You’re kinda taking the sexy out of this,” Dean mutters.

“Stop there,” Castiel says, instead of answering.

Amazingly, Dean does. His face still dark with humiliation, he rises to his feet dressed in nothing but what’s barely a scrap of lacy pink.

Staring at himself in the mirror, his lips pink and parted, his fingers drumming uncertainly on his own thighs, he’s a vision.

Castiel molds himself against Dean’s back, soaking up the heat of Dean’s bare body through his clothing. “Just look,” he instructs, grateful for the little shudder that races up Dean’s spine so he can feel it.

“What, at myself?” Dean’s tone drips with derision, but he _is_ looking. Castiel can see it, Dean’s attention tripping down the cords of muscle in his arms, over the curve of his belly, to where the faintest beginning of an erection strains at the thin material of the panties. The lace fans out against the broadness of his hips; the color makes his skin paler, thin and fragile.

Castiel presses a careful kiss under Dean’s ear and slides a hand to cover up the twisted remnants of the Mark. The reddened ugliness of that thing doesn’t need to influence Dean’s view of himself. Not tonight.

“I, uh.” Dean wets his lips with his tongue. “I was gonna tell you. Eventually. When—you know. Later.”

“What?” Castiel is helplessly fascinated by the flush creeping down Dean’s chest. “That these help you?” Demonstrative, he works two fingers of his free hand through the waistband of Dean’s panties.

Dean draws in a breath, shaky even to Castiel’s ears. “Yeah,” he says. “That I—y’know, that I like this.”

“Well.” Castiel huffs out an exhale that is nearly a laugh. “I can see that.” He reaches between Dean’s legs, cups the warmth and growing heaviness there in the palm of his hand, and drinks in the small noise that comes from low in Dean’s chest.

“I don’t—”

“I don’t care,” Castiel says, meaning it. “You like it.”

Castiel knows that—for tonight, at the least—it’ll be okay when Dean sighs, when he watches Dean’s eyelashes flutter in the mirror, and when Dean allows himself to lean back against Castiel. It’s nearly as new as the shift in their relationship, the way Dean sometimes lets himself surrender to physical expression of his need. It makes Castiel want to tread even more lightly for fear of destroying the budding tenderness there.

“I thought I was gonna do something crazy,” Dean says. He’s unfocused, looking at and addressing himself as much as he’s talking to Castiel. “This was supposed to be over.” His hand, broad and capable, drifts from Castiel’s hip to his own chest; he licks his lips again and pinches his nipple between thumb and forefinger. It reddens and stiffens. Castiel swallows.

Dean’s erection is desperately present now, outlined in silky pink. Castiel’s heart pounds with something fevered and protective. He kisses the back of Dean’s neck, the first bump of his spine that tastes like sweat, rocks his hips into the cleft of Dean’s ass. “I—” He clears his throat and stops. This is for Dean, this night, no matter the human weakness that makes Castiel _want_ until he thinks he could easily wrap himself around Dean without ever letting him go.

Eyes dark, Dean goes easily under the light pressure of Castiel’s hand at the small of his back.

“On your stomach,” Castiel murmurs, stroking the soft-haired, long muscle of Dean’s thigh. It’s a little tacky with sweat, and Castiel can feel the restrained strength as Dean shifts obediently.

Dean like this is a show of deliberate vulnerability. The hair at the back of his neck is dark gold, the low motel lighting casting a bronze sheen over his skin, and he’s still, breathing slow and even. Waiting, as he always has, patient and hopeful despite himself.

Castiel begins, as if they’re living out a story with a happy ending, at the beginning. The angles of Dean’s shoulder blades, spangled with freckles, bunched close to his spine and then going lax under each open-mouthed kiss Castiel leaves there. The dips and valleys of his vertebrae, the taste of salt and leather.

“Cas.” Dean slurs the name into his forearm, rolling his hips down against the mattress. His panties ride further up and before Castiel can resist, he palms at the smooth spot where Dean’s thigh curves into his ass, slipping his thumb beneath the fabric to tap Dean’s balls. Dean whines. His breath speeds.

“What do you want?” Castiel counters. He’s cheating, circling the pad of his thumb against Dean’s perineum. It’s that the high, frustrated noises escaping Dean’s mouth are so beautiful, enough to make Castiel’s cock twitch and fill and press at the fly of his jeans.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean grits out again, his hips lifting in search of whatever Castiel might give him. “Just, come on, babe, please—”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “yes, yes,” and he curls his fingers around Dean’s erection, damp with precome through the silk. Dean groans, thrusts into the touch, pants Castiel’s name and _fuck, don’t stop_. Castiel pulls the panties down until they’re trapped by the breadth of Dean’s thighs, framing the taut swells of his ass, and Castiel leans his forehead there, breathes in and exhales warm and damp where Dean is nearly spread open.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean hisses. He’s pushing up off the bed, tension in the set of his shoulders and the curl of his fists, and that’s not right.

“Be still.” Castiel curls his hands around Dean’s hips, urges him down until he’s flat on his belly. Trembling, still, so Castiel kisses the small of his back, rubs his cheek there so that his few days’ worth of stubble catch and rasp. “Be calm.”

“Yeah, _okay_ ,” Dean drawls.

Castiel slings a leg over Dean’s hip so his knees are bracketing Dean’s thighs, holds him open with both hands as he leans down, and drags the flat of his tongue over the dark pink of Dean’s hole.

“Oh,” Dean says faintly. He goes slack.

“Mm,” Castiel agrees. They haven’t been doing this long, reaping all the goodness and pleasure from each other that they’ve sown over too many years of thwarted need, but Castiel is learning Dean. He’s learning the way that Dean fights, not with Castiel but with himself, and that there always comes a moment when Dean makes the choice to concede. When he yields. Castiel loves that moment, finds himself dreaming of it later.

Dean is so warm here, muscles shuddering as Castiel licks him open, grateful for every taste of sweat, of skin, of the uncomplicated underlying humanity of Dean Winchester. As if Castiel has given him permission, Dean is loud, wavering sounds that come from deep in his throat and send desperate sparks of heat rolling down Castiel’s spine, into the pit of his stomach.

Castiel works at him, all lingering kisses and open mouth. He keeps Dean in place not with force but with light touches, petting Dean’s hips, his thighs, the give of what Dean ruefully calls his _love handles_. Privately, Castiel has turned the phrase over in his mind, relishing its implication—something corporeal for him to grasp to show his devotion.

When he hooks a finger through the rumpled panties and snaps the elastic against the back of Dean’s thigh, Dean moans. He does it again just to hear that noise for a second time. Castiel is hard, aching with it, his blood rushing in his ears as he curls his tongue against Dean’s hole, slipping it just inside; as he nips gently at the thin skin of Dean’s perineum. _That_ draws a yelp, Dean’s hips jerking, his balls drawn up tight.

“Please,” Dean says again. He’s shaking.

“Yes.” Castiel works his hand under Dean’s hips, the silk dragging at his palm and at Dean’s cock, the slick length of his erection. “Yes,” he says again, before Dean needs to ask, and he’s gratified by Dean’s ragged exhale, the anticipatory thrum of Dean’s muscles tightening, and then, blessedly, the throb of Dean’s orgasm there in the palm of his hand.

“Cas, fuck.” Dean’s panting, making fitful little thrusts into Castiel’s curled fingers as he rides that out. “Castiel, I mean, holy—holy shit.”

Castiel hears himself make some sound in response, something low and desperate. His control is fading. His bones feel light and hollow, birdlike, with the transcendent rush of his desire.

Dean is on him the second he pushes unsteadily away.

“Hey,” Dean breathes, “hey, c’mere.” Pink silk twisted around his thighs and slipping down toward his knees, he hauls himself up. “You’re not even naked, you jackass.” He grabs at Castiel’s T-shirt, taking clumsy fistfuls.

“Neither are you,” Castiel says, “technically.”

“Shut up,” Dean says. He grins. “You’re fuckin’ insane, I can’t believe you—” He aims a skeptical glance at Castiel’s mouth.

“It was good,” Castiel ventures.

Dean laughs, yanking Castiel closer still. “Freak,” he says, in exactly the tone he used two weeks ago when he buried his face in Castiel’s shoulder and said _y’know I still need you_. “Hey, just…”

In a matter of seconds, Castiel has a lapful of Dean, all his long limbs and the huff of his breath hot against Castiel’s jaw. He nuzzles Castiel’s neck, slides both hands up under Castiel’s T-shirt. Castiel grasps for him, graceless, arching up in search of pressure, the weight of him.

“Hold still,” Dean says around a fresh laugh. “C’mon, hey.” He’s shoving Castiel down, slithering between Castiel’s legs. The calluses on his palms catch on Castiel’s skin.

Castiel’s breath catches. A smile pressed to Castiel’s stomach, Dean pulls his jeans down around his hips and promptly swallows his erection down in one hungry motion.

The bed tilts, and then so does the entire room.

Dean holds him there, so selfless and assured. His throat is hot, sleek, and Castiel turns his cheek against the cool roughness of the comforter. “ _Shit_ ,” he groans. Dean’s laugh rumbles through the pit of his stomach and steals the breath from his lungs.

Whether Dean is technically skilled, Castiel will have to judge later. As it is, he’s lost in the wake of Dean’s unbridled enthusiasm, the eagerness of how he takes Castiel into his mouth, the gentleness of his fingertips stroking Castiel’s balls and rolling them in his palm until Castiel is gasping for air.

He’s drawn tight, just on the edge, when Dean pulls off and crawls back up his body, smile back in place.

“Dean,” Castiel says, a plaintive protest.

“Aw, you still remember my name?”

As if Castiel could ever forget it, whatever else is taken from him. He might say as much, but Dean wraps a hand around his cock, thumbing the sensitive spot just under the head, and he moans instead.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs into the hollow beneath Castiel’s ear. “Thank you.” Like it’s a secret, like they aren’t slotted together with Castiel coming apart under Dean’s attentions. His movements are expansive: he noses fondly at Castiel’s jaw, rubs his cheek on Castiel’s collarbone, puppyish and sweet with oxytocin and endorphins.

Castiel can’t speak. He slides his hand into Dean’s hair instead, cradling his skull and petting at the back of his neck and hoping the clutch of his fingers is enough to say _you’re more than welcome, you idiot_.

He comes into the warmth and friction of Dean’s fist, his shirt shoved up around his armpits and his mouth open. Dean chuckles into his sternum and lets Castiel hold onto him as the sharp edges of physical pleasure recede into contentment.

The next moments stretch out improbably—human perception of time is completely nonsensical, to Castiel’s ongoing irritation. Dean wipes his hand on Castiel’s shirt, dodging Castiel’s grumble of warning, and kicks his panties, wet with his own come, all the way across the cramped motel room. They land on top of the microwave, and Castiel surprises himself with a bark of laughter.

“Dude,” Dean says. His lips twitch.

“Yeah.” Castiel shimmies out of his jeans and boxers, peels himself out of his T-shirt. Dean watches, cross-legged.

“Don’t, uh.” Dean clears his throat, gaze dropping to the bedspread.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I won’t tell Sam. Not the details, anyway.”

Dean scrubs at the back of his neck with his cleaner hand. It affords Castiel a startlingly red glimpse of the Mark’s remains. “Yeah, I think he’s kinda figured out the gist of our… whatever.”

“You may be right,” Castiel says dryly.

“Asshole.” Dean grabs for Castiel’s hand, entangling their fingers. Now Castiel can see the dirt and blood still caught beneath Dean’s fingernails. He rubs his thumb over Dean’s knuckles, gentle with the perpetual collection of scrapes and scabs.

The radiator clanks next to their bed. Dean breathes, so Castiel listens.

“I better grab a shower,” Dean says.

“Good idea,” Castiel says.

They don’t move. Dean hangs onto Castiel’s hand, the highway roaring dully outside their shuttered window. Castiel’s shoulders hurt, and the sweat drying on his skin prickles, but Dean is looking at him, his expression clear and searching, and whatever he’s looking for, Castiel aches with wanting Dean to find it. He can be the one to wait for Dean this time around.


End file.
